


Were It Only So Simple

by Cruisingforabruising



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.0 spoilers, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Heavily-Implied Depression, Implied Feelings, Light Angst, M/M, Male WoL, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Not beta-read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cruisingforabruising/pseuds/Cruisingforabruising
Summary: Veneficus and Emet-Selch have a fairly amicable chat in the Pendants, Ven airs some fairly candid feelings about his quest, and Emet cannot stop himself from meddling in affairs.(Rated for candid discussion of mental health, and bad language, since apparently my WoL swears like a sailor.)
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 19





	Were It Only So Simple

Ven’s fingers slide carefully over the windowpane in the Pendants, the cool of the surface ‘pon those digits leaves his senses piqued, moreso even than the light blooming inside of him, threatening to come free–or so he suspects. Three Lightwardens down, and even should darkness return, he finds himself ever-blinder. Tendrils of corrupt aether curl and twist in his left eye, and though it’d typically be a saving grace that his right is perpetually under-cover… there’s still less reprieve than he would like. 

A tired sigh as his hand drifts, curls into a fist, fingertips tight against his palm–his pulse is racing, and his silent dread flourishes. Then, the hand drops, slack at his side, as he sits upon plush bedding–the best the Crystarium could provide, his head hitting the mattress with a light ‘thump’.

“Ardbert. Are you there?”

No answer. Classic. Then why, Ven thinks, can he feel such oppressive aether outside of his own? Who would dare catch him in his moment of quiet introspection, in a phase of vulnerability and a self-perpetuating cycle of loathing regarding his very own quest.

“Very well. You’re not Ardbert. Then who, pray tell?”

“Very perceptive, Warrior of Light–or should I say, Bringer of Darkness?”

Emet-Selch. Ah. T’was natural that he’d pick the least convenient of times to stick his nose into business which surely concerned himself, though the Elezen daren’t ask why.

Not yet.

“If it’s anything to you, it’s Ven.”

The voice, previously disembodied, is given form via a portal, and that lanky Garlean sod wanders through as if the intrusion means nothing, poor posture and disdainful frown in tow.

“If it’s anything to you, Warrior of Light–it’s nothing to me.”

“Then get the fuck outta my room, Emet. M’not in the mood.”

The bed dips where Emet sits himself down, voice continuing to croon, to harp on about this, that, and the other.

“You’re never in the mood, Warrior. An odd thing, that. Most warriors of your ilk have a fair bit more bravado. Then again, not all of them are as sick as you are.”

“Bravado was never my strong suit. Why make meaningless displays of aggression when y’can just… go in there. Stick them with the pointy end. Something like that.”

Ven pushes his face into one of the pillows, grumbling into it, whereas the Ascian looks on with his forever-knitted brow, and that holier-than-thou ‘I’m better than you’ frown.

“Where’s the fun in that? The theatre, the dramatics! What’s a play without some tragedy?”

Emet swears he can make out an indignant shrug.

“And I suppose this is the part where you tell me I’m the tragedy.”

“Aye, something akin to that.”

“I’m no fool, Emet. I may be blind in one eye, but I’m not blind to how fucked my aether is. She keeps trying to push through, and her voice… it’s so oppressive, so distorted. Where it used to be reassuring, now it’s… haunting. I think.”

Ven bristles as the bed shifts once again under Emet’s weight, and there’s a hand in his hair, unassuming and yet so all-encompassing, like a familiar touch of an old friend. He has to remind himself that the hand delicately weaving through his unruly hair is that of his enemy.

_His friend._

_‘He’s been nothing but helpful so far’_ , Ven thinks; ever-so-suspicious, though if it grants the good people of Norvrandt even a moment of the night’s comforting embrace, he should suppose the consequences worth it... is what he’d think if he was a better man. However, a better man he is not, at times serving as a humbling reminder that he’s not chosen for his morals, instead being selected expressly for his strength. 

“That does sound like the Hydaelyn I know.”

Ven finds in his voice a strange comfort, coupled with the pitter-patter of raindrops beginning to sing their chorus on the windowsill. The Skywatcher had predicted some cloud, though the rain is a welcome distraction.

“Truthfully, Emet. I know I’m going to die. I know what you’re doing–or at least–parts of it,” Finally, he faces in Emet’s direction just enough that he’s no longer being smothered, “It’s selfish, but I remember… when I saw Tesleen become that Sin Eater, it was as though her aether contorted and twisted in on itself. You’re not fooling me. Mine’s trying to do the same.”

Out comes another sigh. It’s no small mercy that he’s being allowed to air his thoughts. His fellows would worry, although he’s certain they’ve had fair time to concoct their own schemes.

“Woe is you, Warrior. Whatever’ll you do to halt it?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone deaf in the few seconds you kept your mouth shut, Emet. There’s nothing for me here. They’ll die, I’ll die, and we’ll all fade into obscurity like every other creature to have lived and perished on these fractured worlds.”

He knows not the gravity of his words, only that as soon as they’re said (alien words at that, they feel distinctly bitter on his tongue), he feels a pang of regret.

“I’m a selfish man, Emet-Selch.”

“Evidently, but consider how your peers would feel about what you just said.”

There’s something almost close to a chuckle from the Elezen’s lips.

“ _They would hate every word of it_ , they’d tell me not to give up, that life’s worth living; they’re good people, they’d try to find ways to make it worth living after all.”

In this moment, Ven notes something; it’s as though Emet is fighting with himself, contradicting his own thoughts, betraying his motives and yet so eager to spur the Warrior of Darkness on his adventure, in such a way that he may come out of the other side.

“Well, Warrior. If you do intend on dying during this, do promise to make it a show, won’t you?”

The hand is gone, the dip in the bed slowly rises, and he swears he can hear a couple of unpleasant joint-related pops in Emet-Selch’s bones. Not even Ascians are immune to creaky joints, good to know. _(Perhaps he’ll thwart one of them with the chilliest Veraero he can possibly muster.)_

“I’ll make it a show provided I’ve got a good audience.”

Burying his face back into the pillow, he maintains he can hear a quiet, _“Oh, I’ll be there”_.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partially spurred on by the Bookclub, which you can join right [here!](https://discord.gg/ra27jXMGFq)
> 
> Also, for those of you who want a point of reference for how my Warrior of Light looks, [here he is.](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Eo9wyKDW4AMm5mD?format=jpg&name=large)


End file.
